Fluffernutter

Tomorrow is Christopher's fourth birthday. In 43 minutes, he will turn 4 and I will feel the world shift a little as my baby takes another step toward adulthood, toward becoming his own person, toward leaving me.
Tonight, though, is about me. At least, it is as much about me as it can be when I'm devoting a few hours to making cupcakes, cutting fruit and combining cream cheese and fluffernutter to make fruit dip.
Four years ago I was in labor. It was pretty painless at this point, after 30 hours of intense pain, followed by a break, followed by intense pain, followed by a longer break, followed by what-the-hell-is-going-on-here confusion. I never feared the pain of labor. I had my first baby 16 weeks into the pregnancy. It was so early that I hadn't started to worry about the pain yet, far enough along that I was too heartbroken that I had lost my baby to worry about or care about the pain. I wanted to die, too. Contractions were nothing.
So I went into Christopher's labor with a strange mindset. I was convinced that a baby of mine could never live, so his birth, while perfectly normal, was rather fraught. I hit the nurse's button and screamed at them in a panic when the heartbeat monitor slipped off my belly and I could not hear him. I didn't need to be told to push. I never thought to say, this is too hard, I don't want to do this anymore. I wanted to get that baby out of a body that had proven so dangerous for my other children.
And then he was here, and staring at me with those who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are eyes, ones that make me struggle to stifle my laughter when I see them today. He is a strong, healthy boy now. He swims, he runs, he yells and throws fits and wants to be read to all the time. He is perfect, and closer every day to being grown. And I love him more than I ever knew I could love anyone.

Kids can find fun anywhere

It was a good idea. The Waterman's Appreciation Day in St. Michaels had several things I look for in a day out: all-you-can eat crab, the chance to see a new place and a boat-docking contest. I had no idea what it was, but it sounded...interesting, with a touch of the redneck flair that I've come to enjoy since leaving North Carolina.
Twenty minutes into the trip, it was looking more like a questionable idea. Rain was coming down in sheets, the kids were whining, and the GPS was pointing out that St. Michaels wasn't an hour-and-a-half away; it was more like two-and-a-half hours away.
Then we got there, and it seemed like a no-doubt-about it bad idea. It was still raining. The crab tables were soaked and getting wetter. And we witnessed a near fight that made us wonder what kind of event we had wandered into.
But the kids looked around and saw possibility. A small, child-sized skiff to climb in. Oyster rakes to try out, crabs in a holding tray to poke at. The museum had several exhibits that might not have been made for kids, but that they certainly liked: an authentic lighthouse with old-time stoves that opened and closed, a luxury cruiser from the 1950s that they could climb in, an old Pilot House boat that they could....climb in (is there a pattern here?).
Taking them around to the different places took a long time - longer than the rain lasted. Pretty soon we were sitting at a relatively dry table, eating crabs and hot dogs and thinking this place wasn't half-bad. Then we moved to the side of a dock, where we shared corn on the cob and cheered on the crews of boats in the docking contest (we're still not sure what that was about).
Against the rain-soaked odds, the kids were able to look around and find the fun in what seemed like a hopeless situation. I knew there was some reason we were keeping them around.

"Mommy, I had a great day."

I was lugging a Rubbermaid container out of my bedroom, thinking about the pile of outgrown kids' clothes in the spare room that needed to be sorted by size, the unwashed dishes next to the sink and the schoolwork waiting for me downstairs. I muttered "Goodnight" to Christopher as I walked out, wondering vaguely why the hell he was in my bed.
But his little voice stopped me in my tracks.
"Mommy, I had a great day today."
I put the container down and turned slowly to face him. "What?"
He was grinning at me sleepily. "I had a great day."
I would have thought that he had...kind of a crappy day. He woke up with a fever of 102. His brother pulled his hair and pinched him about six times. I wouldn't let him go outside to play, and he wanted to see his friends so much that he kept picking up the phone and dialing random numbers, hoping to miraculously find one.
But we also made his first paper chain so that he could count down the days to his birthday. He did his first scavenger hunt, following pictures torn from an IKEA catalog around the house until he came upon the Emperor Zurg toy that I had hidden from him. We read a million books. And he watched about three hours of TV somehow, which is always a good day for him.
But really, we didn't do much of anything. And maybe that's what made it such a good day for him. I think he likes to just hang out more than I do. Maybe because he sees the house as a giant toy-filled playground to explore, and I see it as a building full of chores I haven't done yet. Maybe, maybe.
I walked over and kissed him on the cheek, told him I had a great day too, and went downstairs to start on my night's work.